The Tales of Gary Barkovitch
by Satan Abraham
Summary: Snippets from Barkovitch's life - during the walk, before the walk, AU, insane, just a plethora of Barkovitch oneshots. Rated T for language.
1. Hypocrites

"_Garraty's name was shouted with monotonous frequency, but blocs of out-of-staters cheered briefly for Barkovitch, Pearson, Wyman."_

What the everloving fuck were they doing here?

Gary Barkovitch studied the group as he walked past, narrowing his eyes in half-confusion, half-annoyance. He didn't know why they were there. Were they hoping to actually _see _him die now? He didn't think one person there had ever even _tolerated _him. It would be too much to hope for someone who liked him – his family was back home, and even that wasn't a definite 'like' – but there had been a few people who had tolerated him. Maybe. If he _really _thought about it.

There was that Beyr kid – oh, wait, nope, Beyr didn't tolerate him anymore. Not since Beyr had 'rescued' him from Hollard and his gang and Barkovitch, annoyed with Beyr stepping in, had snapped at him. Now Beyr didn't like him, just like everyone else. Maybe Allan Carson had tolerated him; Carson tolerated basically everyone. He was best friends with the retard, after all.

Oh wait, Carson hadn't liked him since Barkovitch had pointed out that he chose to spend his time with a retard.

Who had been there, anyway? He'd only caught a glimpse of them, even though he'd glared for as long as the four-miles-per-hour pace would allow. He'd seen Lucas Hollard, the prick who liked to have his lackeys shove Barkovitch down flights of stairs and into garbage cans and lockers and had been the cause of many broken bones for Barkovitch. Allan Carson and the retard had been there, of course, Carson was a social kid and he drug the retard around everywhere. No Casey Beyr – his dad hit him and he was probably too busy hiding out while his bruises healed. It had been a rare day at school when Beyr didn't have a black eye or something of the sort, if he was there at all. Sometimes he was so beat up he couldn't use the multiple fights he got into as a weak excuse nobody believed.

Edith Tanner had been there. She'd been the school slut, the bitch that had kissed Barkovitch the day before he'd left D.C. His… well, his first kiss, actually. It had been rough, it had tasted like cigarettes, and Edith had taken off before Barkovitch could react. He still didn't know why she'd done that. He didn't think it had anything to do with her liking him.

Of course it hadn't had anything to do with her liking him.

Nobody liked him.

Hell, he didn't even think _he _liked him.

He didn't want to think about them anymore. The list of people who didn't-even-tolerate-him was too long, much longer than those few he'd thought of there. If he thought about _school_ and what had gone on there and the day-to-day near-torture he'd had to deal with. He wasn't being overdramatic about it, either. Nobody had liked him, and he didn't blame them. He was a prick. He was a freak. He was a bastard.

He had the Plan, though, he'd be fine. The Plan, the thinly veiled suicide plan. But it wasn't suicide. Because he was going to win.

But if he didn't win, it didn't matter, anyway. Nobody would care. People at school would be happier. His family would sure as hell be happier without their problem child – sure, they'd mourn, Mom and Dad because it was the right thing to do and Joshua because, maybe, he was sad that his little brother had died.

But if he did win…

If he did win, of course he'd be happier. 'Money can't buy happiness' was bullshit. Of course money could buy happiness. Money could buy friends, money could buy everything he'd wanted. He could… he could buy a nice house, a nice car, and of course everyone would like him because… because he had money. And that's what people liked, because human beings were shallow bastards, the lot of them. Money could definitely buy happiness.

Caught up in thoughts of happiness, Barkovitch tripped and was warned. He swore under his breath as he picked up the pace, shoving his hands into his pockets and slouching a bit. He could head the pack. Some kids liked to stay in back, like the freak with the purple pants, and maybe that 'conserved energy' and all that shit, but who the fuck cared about that? Unpredictability was… well, it was his thing, right? Be different, stand out? They couldn't hurt him here. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me, right?

Right?

That was bullshit too, no matter how much he tried to think it was real. Total and utter bullshit. Words didn't hurt if you thought you were the best fucking thing that had ever bothered to grace the Earth with your presence, but for the rest of us, words did a hell of a lot. Get told you're a freak and that nobody likes you enough times you start to believe it. And anyway, if he didn't believe it, he'd be delusional, at least about that last part.

Even here he'd tried talking to people, tried being a little nice. First that fucking Olson had screwed everything up, and then he'd tried talking to Garraty, "Maine's Own Queer for Scarface", on his own, but he could tell that Garraty didn't like him. The thing about Garraty though, was that he didn't show it as much as the others. Not like Collie Parker, who, to be honest, scared the shit out of Barkovitch. Not only was he _huge,_ but he was _violent_, and Barkovitch had a feeling that, if he wanted to, he could convince other people onto his side.

Yeah, if all the Walkers had met in other circumstances, Collie Parker would probably be making his life a living hell.

Not that Walking wasn't hellish enough, of course. His feet hurt, his back hurt, his legs hurt, and he was alone.

Not really the best recipe for success, there, Gary, you should've thought this through _I did_ then why is it turning out like this _I don't know the Plan _the Plan is stupid the Plan isn't doing shit _shut up _you're talking to yourself asshole you're crazy no wonder nobody likes you _shut up shut up shut up._

He was breaking down. He couldn't do this; he couldn't fall apart _now,_ this was the absolute worst time to fall apart. He needed to concentrate. Concentrate. Maybe if he got a few more warnings, put himself up to three, he'd concentrate better.

Yeah.

That would work.

He stopped walking, ignoring everyone's gazes. He just stood for a minute – he debated sitting down, but he had a feeling that he wouldn't be getting up anytime soon if he did so – waiting for them to call out his warnings. After they had and he was thirty seconds away from death, Gary Barkovitch continued his walk.

* * *

**and now I am back in barkovitch's head**

**now i can write sad fanfiction with him because i have a perfect pandora station and have successfully gotten back unto mostly not-insane barkovitch's head**

**prepare yourselves**

**also that is probably the most rambly thing i've ever written jesus christ aurora have you ever heard of paragraph breaks**


	2. Number Five

They were talking about him; he knew it. Ever since Number Forty-seven had come up and fucked with his head, they'd been talking about him, laughing about him, thank God they'd quit _yelling _at him. That stupid Number Two and stupid Number Seventy-whatever. And the other one. The other one that didn't even matter.

Did any of them matter, though? No. No, the answer was no. None of them mattered at all. Why would they? They were all stupid, Number Two, Number Three, Number Sixty-one, Number Eighty-eight, Number Seventy, Number Five.

Number Five especially.

_Christ,_ how he hated Number Five.

But that was stupid. God, he was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Stupid to think he could get into this and live. If that had been what he'd been thinking at all. Hadn't he wanted to die? All of the rest of them had. Number Sixty-one especially.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought once he'd called Number Sixty-one something different. Not in the ways of the others. Not the names. But something else. But it was stupid to think of that. Stupid to think of anything. _Anything_ was stupid. _Thinking _was stupid. It was all just, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

It was dark. It was like he was floating, floating above the road but he knew that wasn't true. His feet hit the ground, one in front of the other. Throbbing, hurting, but pain on the outside was better than pain on the inside, he thought. Bruises would heal, eventually. Broken feet would heal, eventually. And if not. If not there were always the plastic ones.

Plaaaastic feet.

Hm.

Plastic feet.

But plastic feet brought back thoughts of 'because you don't have any' and 'we'll all spit on your brains' so he stopped thinking of the plastic feet. Plastic feet were out for when (if) he won. Nope. No plastic feet. He just wouldn't move. No moving. Number Five refuses to move ever again. Number Five will lay on his bed and watch television all day. Number Five will never walk again. Number Five will never think again. Number Five will never do again.

Number Five will die.

It would be unlikely for Number Five to survive, even if he did win.

He used to think so. He used to think he could win. Number Five used to believe in a hopeful future.

Number Five is unsure how he could've ever been that stupid.

Number Five looks at the Plan now and tosses it aside.

Number Five realizes it for the piece of shit it is.

Number Five wonders how close he'll make it to the end.

Number Five wonders if he can watch the others die or if they will all die tonight, in the dark. In the _insufferable _dark. He wonders if he will die in the dark.

Number Five decides that he will probably will. Just like everyone else. They all die in the dark. Everyone dies in the dark. Even the ones smart enough to not walk. Even his parents. Number Five's parents who he can barely remember but he knows they didn't like him. Number Five was the problem child. They already had their prodigy. Number Five was extra.

Number Five searched for attention and found none.

Number Five got attention from the kids at school. It was negative attention. Perhaps Number Five thought that negative was better than none. Perhaps Number Five was right. Probably not. Number Five is rarely right.

Number Five used to mean something to himself. He had his days where he thought he wasn't worth anything, but he usually got over them. Now Number Five knows he isn't worth anything. And it scares him. Or, he thinks it scares him. He's not so sure anymore. He's numb. The hurt from the plastic feet has ebbed away, leaving Number Five a hollow shell. If it scares him, he doesn't know. Number Five doesn't know anything anymore.

Another one of them dies. Dies in the dark. Number Five barely registers it. Near him, one of the others, another of the Seventy-somethings, thinks it was perhaps Number Five. Only he doesn't say Number Five. He says Barkovitch, and Number Five dimly registers that Barkovitch is Number Five.

That's stupid. Barkovitch is too impressive a name to be Number Five.

But Barkovitch knows what he's doing Barkovitch laughs, Barkovitch shrieks with laughter and tells the others, not Number Seventy-something one and two but Parker and Pearson, not Number Sixty-one but scarface, Peter McVries, not Number Forty-seven but that asshole Ray Garraty, that he's not gone yet. Not gone yet. He's screaming it. Not gone yet. Not quite yet.

Not quite yet but soon.

Soon.

Now.

It is Number Five that kills himself and Barkovitch, it is Barkovitch that reacts. Barkovitch that screams, Number Five that pulls. Barkovitch that feels, Number Five that is numb.

Both of them die.

And then he is floating. He doesn't know if he's Number Five or Barkovitch, then realizes with a start that he's _neither. _He's not killer, freak, or prick, either.

He's Gary.

He's the kid that was so excited to start school but devastated when he found out he didn't fit in. He's the teenager that taught himself to walk on his hands because he had nothing better to do. He's the guy that loved watching movies. Because while Number Five is numb and Barkovitch is the freak, the killer, the prick, Gary is someone worth something.

The road is gone now and it's all light. Gary is floating, and he _feels, _but not an overwhelming amount of hurt and negative emotions that Barkovitch feels, but the wonder and excitement of this new place. He's acting younger than his age, of course, Gary is sixteen (just turned sixteen, but that's beside the point), but he's dead. He can afford to act younger than his age.

He's dead.

Gary will be sixteen years old forever.

He doesn't know what will go on in this world where he is dead. It's just light. He thinks it needs some ground. He likes this floating thing, but what he'd really like to do now is stretch out under the bleachers and not get hurt. He wants to sit under a tree at the park and not have to worry.

He doesn't know what he wants more, so this world provides both. Gary tries out the bleachers first, then the tree. He decides he feels most at home climbing up into the tree, sitting on a conveniently large branch.

Of course it's conveniently large. It's his world, after all.

What else does he want?

Cats. He's always liked cats.

And just like that, a group of cats starts to prowl around. Some of them stretch out under the bleachers, some of them play in the grass.

There sure are a lot of them. And they all have collars, so probably all names, too. Gary jumps down the tree and reaches for the nearest one. It's pale yellow, and very pretty. A boy. All of them are boys. Gary picks it up and reads the tag on the collar.

#3

Arthur Baker

Chatham, Louisiana

Are they all the ones who Walked? Arthur and Raymond and Peter and Henry? Are they all here?

Will they be his friends now?

Arthur seems to want to be his friend. Arthur doesn't seem to mind when he pets him.

Gary suspects that some of the others (Collie Parker, for example) will not be so nice.

But perhaps he can win over a cat. Gary has always been good with cats, after all.

Gary laughs, but it's not the scary, insane, Barkovitch laugh. Nor is it the empty, hollow Number Five laugh. It's an actual laugh, because he's happy. Because he's got a place now where he won't be persecuted and he even has friends, even though they are cats. Humans are overrated, anyway.

* * *

**i honestly don't really know what I just wrote**

**but**

**you know**

**why not**

**also**

**just looked up louisiana towns for baker**

**and decided that that was as good as any**


End file.
